


have a share in us

by elumish



Series: the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 19:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12967197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: “Mycroft, I think my kid is emerging as a Guide.”Mycroft glances up from the paperwork on his desk, then says, “Yes, I rather think they are.”





	have a share in us

**Author's Note:**

> There's a super brief reference to Teen Wolf and the previous story in the series, but it's not super important to understanding this story.

“Mycroft, I think my kid is emerging as a Guide.”

Mycroft glances up from the paperwork on his desk, then says, “Yes, I rather think they are.”

Greg blinks at him. “You knew? How did you—why am I even asking this? Of course you knew.”

Something vaguely approaching a smile crosses Mycroft’s face; it’s the closest he ever gets to actually smiling, and Greg is always glad to get it, because he’s one of the only people who can actually get Mycroft to smile. “I can smell Guide on you, as an alteration to the smell of your daughter rather than in addition.”

“You can _smell_ Guide on me? Sentinels can smell Guides?”

“I can.”

Of course he can. Greg wonders why he even questions these things anymore. Greg drops down in the chair Mycroft keeps in his office specifically for him, because Mycroft hates having other visitors. “The problem is, I think she’s stronger than me. A fair amount stronger. And I’m not really sure what to do.”

Mycroft arches a patrician brow. “You know other Guides.”

Greg arches a brow back at him, because Mycroft isn’t the only one who can play that game. “The strongest Guide I know is Sherlock, and if you think I’m going to ask Sherlock for help with my daughter, you’ve lost it.”

“Fair point. I can direct you to any number of more-than-competent Guides if you would like.”

“I was actually wondering if you could give me the number of the American kid. I figured, since he emerged as a teenager, he might have some advice.”

Mycroft stares at him for a moment, looking damn amused at something that Greg entirely doesn’t understand and doesn’t really want to ask about. There are some things, he’s realized, that he’s better off not knowing when it comes to the Holmeses. Finally, Mycroft says, “I would be happy to provide you with Mr. Stilinski’s contact information, though I am unsure of how free his schedule is, given that he is currently at university.”

“Right. Thanks.” Greg probably should leave Mycroft alone now to go back to work, but instead he stays where he is, watching Mycroft. It’s late enough in the evening that Mycroft has moved his work to his home office, and now he has his suit jacket stripped off and draped over the back of his chair, his cufflinks off, and his sleeves rolled up to bare his freckled forearms. He looks positively casual, for Mycroft. “Have a hot date later?”

Mycroft’s head jerks up, and he gives Greg a startled look. “Excuse me?”

“You lost the jacket, your sleeves are rolled up—it’s practically naked, for you.”

To Greg’s delight, a dull flush touches Mycroft’s cheeks. “Ah, no. This is just—I wouldn’t—”

Greg lets him flounder for a second, then takes pity on him and says, “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t presume Mycroft Holmes does something so human as have a hot date with someone.”

To his surprise, Mycroft actually blushes harder at that. “I’m not—I thought I might see _you_ tonight.”

Greg opens his mouth to make another joke, realizes what Mycroft just said, and closes his mouth again. Mycroft is avoiding his eyes now, writing something on a paper with apparent great interest. “You’re straight,” he blurts out finally, then buries his head in his hands because Mycroft Holmes always makes him an idiot. Not just feel like an idiot—actual be an idiot. “That’s what this whole—I’d know if you weren’t straight, right? The whole—you ground on me because we’re _friends_.”

“We are friends,” Mycroft says, then adds stiffly, “I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”

“What? No, I’m not uncomfortable. I just—Jesus, I feel stupid. I’ve been attracted to you since I met you. You’re a Sentinel, how did you not—”

“Ah.” Mycroft looks away, down at his papers. “I’m afraid I assumed that was attraction to Anthea, and began to block it out.”

Greg drops his head in his hands again, because this is ridiculous. It’s like some terrible comedy of errors, and he feels like he’s in one of those terrible romance novels Mary reads. “So are you—are you gay, or bi, or…it’s none of my business, actually, don’t feel the need to answer that. That was inappropriate.”

“Hardly.” Mycroft’s hands go to his tie, and for a second Greg thinks he’s going to pull it off, but instead he just straightens it. “I am gay, I suppose, should I confine myself to labels. I will inform you now that I have little interest in sexual activity, so if you are looking for that from me, you will be disappointed. Before you inquire, my lack of interest is not due to a past assault, nor a lack of attraction.”

“I wasn’t—” This whole conversation is absurd, and Greg stands up and heads over towards Mycroft, because he’s not going to have a conversation about sex with Mycroft halfway across the room from him. He ends up leaning against the side of Mycroft’s desk, turned to face Mycroft. Mycroft’s nostrils flare, his pupils dilating a little. “Have you smelled that I’ve had sex with anyone in the entire time I’ve known you?”

Mycroft’s lips twist a little. “If I had, you would have noticed my reaction. My control, while excellent, is not perfect.”

“My point is, I’m a DI and a divorced father. I barely have time to sleep, much less find someone to sleep with. Sex is not really my biggest concern. My hand works just fine.”

“Ah.”

Greg leans towards Mycroft. “I don’t want to do anything that you’re uncomfortable with, and I don’t know what your feelings on touch are, but I’ve wanted to kiss you for years.”

Mycroft fiddles with his tie again, then says, “I can handle some touch, though it is my least controlled and highest-level sense. It is one of the reasons for my disinclination for any more…enthusiastic sexual activity. Kissing, however—” He leans forward, touching a hand to Greg’s cheek, then presses his mouth to Greg’s. It’s a chaste kiss, all things considered, and Greg has a feeling Mycroft has had relatively few partners in his lifetime, but Mycroft’s mouth is warm and soft, and he makes the best noise when Greg lifts a hand up to trace the edge of his jaw. “I am unfortunately unpracticed,” Mycroft says softly after he pulls away. He’s close enough for his breath to be warm air against Greg’s skin. “Of all things, this is not my skill set.”

Greg smiles at him. “It’s okay. I’m not expecting anything you don’t want to give me, or you can’t give me.”

“I will also warn you that I am not in the habit of sharing beds with others. The strength of my senses makes that an unpleasant experience.”

“Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Greg teases.

Mycroft flushes. “Apologies. I did not—”

“I’m kidding.” Greg’s hand goes to Mycroft’s tie, loosening it. “I’d have you in bed in a minute, if you wanted it. But like I said, I’m old enough and have been alone long enough that I’m fine with my hand and whatever you want to give me. And whatever you want me to give you.” He finishes working Mycroft’s tie loose, then pulls it off entirely and sets it down on the desk. The fact that Mycroft doesn’t protest says a lot. “Do you find the pressure from the clothing useful, equalizes your senses?” Mycroft gives him a startled look. “My brother used to do that, when he was little. He was a one-sense Sentinel, but it was strong, and he used a weighted blanket for an equalizing effect.”

“I didn’t know,” Mycroft says, sounding like he hasn’t said those words in a long time. “Few people realize that.”

“Yeah, well, he died when I was a teenager.” Greg’s hand settles against his neck. “I can stop, if you’d like.”

“Unnecessary. My grounding on you provides sufficient equalizing.”

Greg grins. “You like it, then?”

“If we must be so crude.”

“We must.” Greg’s hand goes to the top of Mycroft’s shirt, undoing the top button. He traces the soft, pale skin just above Mycroft’s clavicle, watching him tremble and swallow. “I can stop whenever you’d like.”

“As I already said, that’s unnecessary.” Mycroft’s hand lifts, then flutters in the air like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “I must admit to being unsure of what to do to…please you. I can tell what you do and do not enjoy, but it will be trial and error, which is not particularly efficient. I have conducted some…impersonal research, but much of what it has taught me is that people enjoy a wide variety of—”

“Okay, stop.” Mycroft pulls his hand away, but Greg grabs it, holding on to it. He leans forward to press his forehead against Mycroft’s. “Breathe, Mycroft. I can see your pupils flickering, and your control should be better than this. I’m not worth losing control over.”

“I’m hardly losing control,” Mycroft says coolly, but he doesn’t pull away, either. “I am simply rarely close enough to ground on you this effectively.”

“How does that work?” Greg asks, setting a hand against the bare skin of Mycroft’s chest. “I’m nowhere near strong enough a Guide to be an effective ground for you, particularly considering we can’t bond.”

“The rule of thumb is twenty points per sense with each sense building on the next. To reach the next sense, it must get past those twenty points. What I am able to do, however, is ground proportionally. Rather than grounding all of one sense, I ground some of each sense.” Mycroft slides a hand up into Greg’s hair, shuddering a little. “I have not had physical contact in many years, shy of what I have with Sherlock.”

“I’m assuming you don’t ground on Sherlock.”

Mycroft laughs shortly. “Sherlock could never be accused of being calming.”

Greg bursts out laughing, leaning his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder until he can get control of himself. “No,” he gasps out finally. “Never.”

Getting himself under control, Greg starts to lift his head up—then stops, when Mycroft’s hand presses on the back of his head, holding him there. It’s not a hard pressure—he could break free with no difficulty—but he stays anyway.

After a second, Mycroft’s hand shifts from holding him in place to carding through his hair. It’s the sort of touch he hasn’t had since months before his divorce, when the disastrous mess of his marriage hit its breaking point and they stopped sleeping in the same bed, stopped talking, stopped touching. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this sort of basic physical intimacy, not sexual but just pleasant.

“I need to wash my hair,” he blurts out finally, with the somewhat horrified thought that Mycroft’s Sentinel-enhanced senses can probably feel exactly how long it’s been since Greg washed his hair or did anything more than the most perfunctory showering between crime scenes and making sure his kids actually go to school.

“Your hair is fine,” Mycroft tells him, thumb stroking back and forth against the nape of Greg’s neck. “You simply feel like yourself.” His voice turns to something Greg would term wistful from anyone else. “I can hear the blood flowing through your veins at this distance, with no strain on my senses. I can taste you on my tongue. I did not expect I could be this close to you.”

“Is it quiet?” Greg asks. That is often how Sentinels with enhanced hearing describe finding a Guide, that for the first time in their life it is quiet.

Mycroft lets go so Greg can lean back and look at him. His expression is blank, not the stiff blankness of when he’s trying to be impenetrable but an ease that Greg rarely sees with Holmes.

Greg sets a hand on Mycroft’s chest, smiling when Mycroft glances down at it.

“Quiet is not my goal,” Mycroft says after a moment, and it takes Greg a second to remember what he’s referring to. “Quiet is a loss of information. Quiet is a failure. When I am grounded, I am able to distinguish between each individual sound, between each sensory input.” He looks down at Greg’s hand again. “I can feel your fingerprints. If required, I could draw them from this sense memory, because I am experiencing it while grounded on you.”

“That’s incredible.”

Mycroft looks briefly startled, then says, “I suppose this is why Sherlock is so attached to Dr. Watson, if this is what that feels like.” He stands, Greg’s hand slipping from his chest. His pupil’s contract. “I am unlikely to get any more work done today, so shall we retire somewhere where we are less likely to be interrupted?”

“I’m always happy to go somewhere other than your office with you.” Greg grins up at him before he pushes away from the desk. “Am I finally going to be allowed into your mysterious flat?”

“One of them.” Mycroft rolls his sleeves down, then pulls his jacket on and buttons it, straightening it just so. “I must admit, the idea of my domicile smelling of you is…appealing.”

Greg smiles down a snicker at the use of the word ‘domicile’, instead straightening his own jacket. He’ll never look as posh or put together as Mycroft, but he can try not to look a mess. He’s somewhat tempted to take Mycroft’s hand, but he has a feeling Mycroft wouldn’t want that sort of public display of affection.

Anthea is there as soon as they open the door, tapping away at her Blackberry. “Going home early, sir?” she asks.

“I will have my phone accessible,” he says defensibly, as though Anthea was accusing him of taking a six-month vacation without permission.

“Should the world catch fire, I will inform you after the fact,” she says blandly. “Shall I redirect your usual food order to today’s flat?”

Greg has a feeling his usual food order consists of something healthy that Mycroft hates eating, so he asks, “Can you order from Mycroft’s favorite place, instead? Whatever his favorite food is? And double it.”

“Greg—”

“With pleasure,” Anthea says, sounding not particularly like it’s a pleasure. “If Mr. Holmes is in before eight for anything other than a major attack, I am holding you personally responsible.”

Greg feels his entire face heat up. “I’m—we’re not—”

“Your children are with their mother, and you are not required in to work until eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll be going now,” Mycroft says sternly, sweeping off down the hallway. Greg follows, startling when Anthea shoots him a wink.

She does like him. Go figure.

Greg grins back, then hurries to catch up with Mycroft.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm partway through a Hawaii Five-0 crossover piece, though who knows if that'll ever get done. Are people interested in seeing more Mycroft and Lestrade? Stiles and Jonathan? Criminal Minds? Stargate? Something else?


End file.
